The Great Bathroom Adventure
This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with a
public toilet. And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so long.
My mother was a fanatic about public toilets. As a little girl, she'd bring
me in the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat. Then,
she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat. Finally, she'd
instruct, "Never, never sit on a public toilet seat." Then she'd
demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the toilet in a
sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh make contact
with the toilet seat. But by this time, I'd have peed down my leg. And we'd
go home.
That was a long time ago. I've had lots of experience with public toilets
since then, but I'm still not particularly fond of public toilets,
especially those with powerful, red-eye sensors. Those toilets know when you
want them to flush. They are psychic toilets. But I always confuse their
psychic ability by following my mother's advice and assuming The Stance.
The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder is
especially full. This is most likely to occur after watching a full-length
feature film. During the movie pee, it is nearly impossible to hold The
Stance. You know what I mean. You drink a two liter cup of Diet Coke, then
sit still through a three-hour saga because, for God's sake, even if you
didn't wipe or wash your hands in the bathroom, you'd still miss the pivotal
part of the movie or the second scene, in which they flash the leading man's
naked derriere. So, you cross your legs and you hold it. And you hold it
until that first credit rolls and you sprint to the bathroom, about ready to
explode all over your internal organs. And at the bathroom, you find a line
of women that makes you think there's a half-price sale on Mel Gibson's
underwear in there. So, you wait and smile politely at all the other ladies,
also crossing their legs and smiling politely. And you finally get closer.
You check for feet under the stall doors. Every one is occupied. You hope no
one is doing frivolous things behind those stall doors, like blowing her
nose or checking the contents of her wallet. Finally, a stall door opens and
you dash, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to
find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter. You hang your handbag on the
door hook, yank down your pants and assume The Stance. Relief. More relief.
Then your thighs begin to shake. You'd love to sit down but you certainly
hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold
The Stance as your thighs experience a quake that would register an eight on
the Richter scale. To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper.
Might as well be ready when you are done. The toilet paper dispenser is
empty. Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny napkin you wiped your
fingers on after eating buttered popcorn. It would have to do. You crumble
it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work and your
pocketbook whams you in the head. "Occupied!" you scream as you reach out
for the door, dropping your buttered popcorn napkin in a puddle and falling
backward, directly onto the toilet seat. You get up quickly, but it's too
late. Your bare bottom has made contact with all the germs and life forms on
the bare seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper, not that there was
any, even if you had enough time to. And your mother would be utterly
ashamed of you if she knew, because her bare bottom never touched a public
toilet seat because, frankly, "You don't know what kind of diseases you
could get." And by THIS time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet
is so confused that it flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a
fountain and then it suddenly sucks everything down with such force that you
grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged to China. At
that point, you give up. You're finished peeing. You're soaked by the
splashing water. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a Chicklet wrapper
you found in your pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You
can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic sensors, so you
wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line of
women, still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this
point. One kind soul at the very end of the line points out that you are
trailing a piece of toilet paper on your shoe as long as the Mississippi
River. You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and
say warmly, "Here. You might need this." At this time, you see your spouse,
who has entered, used and exited his bathroom and read a copy of War and
Peace while waiting for you. "What took you so long?" he asks, annoyed. This
is when you kick him sharply in the shin and go home.
This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with a
public toilet. And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so long.
My mother was a fanatic about public toilets. As a little girl, she'd bring
me in the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat. Then,
she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat. Finally, she'd
instruct, "Never, never sit on a public toilet seat." Then she'd
demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the toilet in a
sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh make contact
with the toilet seat. But by this time, I'd have peed down my leg. And we'd
go home.
That was a long time ago. I've had lots of experience with public toilets
since then, but I'm still not particularly fond of public toilets,
especially those with powerful, red-eye sensors. Those toilets know when you
want them to flush. They are psychic toilets. But I always confuse their
psychic ability by following my mother's advice and assuming The Stance.
The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder is
especially full. This is most likely to occur after watching a full-length
feature film. During the movie pee, it is nearly impossible to hold The
Stance. You know what I mean. You drink a two liter cup of Diet Coke, then
sit still through a three-hour saga because, for God's sake, even if you
didn't wipe or wash your hands in the bathroom, you'd still miss the pivotal
part of the movie or the second scene, in which they flash the leading man's
naked derriere. So, you cross your legs and you hold it. And you hold it
until that first credit rolls and you sprint to the bathroom, about ready to
explode all over your internal organs. And at the bathroom, you find a line
of women that makes you think there's a half-price sale on Mel Gibson's
underwear in there. So, you wait and smile politely at all the other ladies,
also crossing their legs and smiling politely. And you finally get closer.
You check for feet under the stall doors. Every one is occupied. You hope no
one is doing frivolous things behind those stall doors, like blowing her
nose or checking the contents of her wallet. Finally, a stall door opens and
you dash, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to
find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter. You hang your handbag on the
door hook, yank down your pants and assume The Stance. Relief. More relief.
Then your thighs begin to shake. You'd love to sit down but you certainly
hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold
The Stance as your thighs experience a quake that would register an eight on
the Richter scale. To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper.
Might as well be ready when you are done. The toilet paper dispenser is
empty. Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny napkin you wiped your
fingers on after eating buttered popcorn. It would have to do. You crumble
it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work and your
pocketbook whams you in the head. "Occupied!" you scream as you reach out
for the door, dropping your buttered popcorn napkin in a puddle and falling
backward, directly onto the toilet seat. You get up quickly, but it's too
late. Your bare bottom has made contact with all the germs and life forms on
the bare seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper, not that there was
any, even if you had enough time to. And your mother would be utterly
ashamed of you if she knew, because her bare bottom never touched a public
toilet seat because, frankly, "You don't know what kind of diseases you
could get." And by THIS time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet
is so confused that it flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a
fountain and then it suddenly sucks everything down with such force that you
grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged to China. At
that point, you give up. You're finished peeing. You're soaked by the
splashing water. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a Chicklet wrapper
you found in your pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You
can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic sensors, so you
wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line of
women, still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this
point. One kind soul at the very end of the line points out that you are
trailing a piece of toilet paper on your shoe as long as the Mississippi
River. You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and
say warmly, "Here. You might need this." At this time, you see your spouse,
who has entered, used and exited his bathroom and read a copy of War and
Peace while waiting for you. "What took you so long?" he asks, annoyed. This
is when you kick him sharply in the shin and go home.
